Y/n is on the floor. That's not new. The concrete is cold against her back, the chill seeping through the fabric of her shirt like it's trying to settle into her bones. She's been here long enough that the pain has become a kind of companion — a dull, constant pulse that syncs with her heartbeat.

The metal door is shut. It's always shut. But there's a sound — shifting, low, a scrape of movement from the corner where the shadows bunch thickest. She knows that sound. Knows the weight of it, the specific rhythm.

She hears him move before she sees him — the drag of his body across the floor, slow and pained. Then his shoulder is against hers, warmth bleeding through the cold. He doesn't touch her more than that. Doesn't have to. Somewhere along the line, they'd learned that sometimes just existing next to each other was enough.

She can feel the tremor in his arm where it presses against hers. They both know what happened. What they did to her this time. The blood on her shirt has dried, flaking, dark. Dean noticed. He always notices.

The footsteps are distant but approaching. Steady. Unhurried. The sound of someone who knows they have all the time in the world.